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Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. I must have something in hand. Dorling said. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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